


Pins and Needles (CURRENTLY EDITING)

by OnwardUpTheMountain



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Abduction, Betrayal, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Bullying, Crime Fighting, Gen, Gun Violence, Irondad, Peter Parker Whump, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-15 15:11:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15415716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnwardUpTheMountain/pseuds/OnwardUpTheMountain
Summary: As Spider-Man kites through the skyline, the black hearted and corrupt take shelter beneath the concrete streets. The danger is mounting as rivals compete for control. With hordes of roiling gangsters flooding the city, innocent people are getting hurt. All Peter can do is watch as his home is destroyed from the inside out. To make matters worse, Mr Stark isn't too keen on 'Itsy Bitsy' getting involved. "With or without the suit, it only takes one bullet. Underneath all this tech, it's flesh and bone."And when a new student arrives at Midtown High and gets all buddy buddy with none other than Flash Thompson, Tony's words couldn't be farther from the truth.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! Welcome to my little corner of the internet! Whether you are here by accident or not, I hope you stick around!  
> This is my first time actively publishing my writing. I cannot express how excited I am to share my story with you all!
> 
> When Spider-Man: Homecoming first revealed itself, I was super excited. Peter is overexcited, bubbly, socially awkward and nervous for the future- something that most juveniles my age can relate to. Here was a Spider-Man being played by a young boy barely out of his teen years with such mannerisms in abundance. Tom Holland did a fantastic job!
> 
> So. I had this idea swirling in my head for a while. I wanted to try and explore the more 'grounded' life of Peter Parker and his feelings- his responsibility to his aunt, his friends, his studies and the city all rolled into one, paired with his moonlighting as a certain web-slinger. You'll find I've dredged up some older characters from the MARVEL Comics, and twisting them ever so slightly to fit this story. In other words, people you might have seen in Homecoming might not necessarily be how they were depicted in the original story lines. 
> 
> Another note is that I give my stories a theme song. As I release them, there will be songs that I believe are best suited to each fic. I'd love for you to give them a listen whilst reading! 
> 
> In this case- "The Weight of Us" by Sanders Bohlke.
> 
> Anyway, enough blabbering. Without further ado, I present to you... Spider-Man: Homecoming- Pins and Needles

_"...a young girl has died following a shooting in the Hillcrest area-"_

_"...beautiful tributes for the family of Officer Darryn Wellson who tragically-"_

_"...there are now helicopters in the air following the chase, uh, the attempt to spike the vehicle has failed-"_

_"...declined to speak with Fox 5 directly, but later stated: "I'm terrified for my life, for my kids lives, for-"_

_"...armed robberies taken place in Howard Beach has taken a devastating turn. Authorities discovered a body-"_

_"...are being targeted. One boy was chased with a knife whilst he walked to his grandmother's home. He-"_

The dark of the room was pierced by flashing screens. The clamour of reporters drowned out the industrial humming of generators and the gentle dribble of water. The air was thick. Stifling. A heady mix of oil and sweat, strangely bittersweet, was enough to make anybody's stomach turn. The small space that had once been a security booth, had an oppressive, unnatural feeling.

Harry swore up and down this place was haunted. Echoes of clanking metal and barked orders seemed to penetrate the concrete and rattle down the pipes. It was like the ghosts of old construction workers, still hard at their labours, had clung to this place and never left. Harry had been standing here for what felt like hours. He was not alone down here in the dark. Another man, twice his size, had his back to Harry, overtly focused on the cluster of box televisions that had been stacked like Lego blocks atop a sturdy table.

Despite this, to Harry, it was as though hundreds of pairs of eyes were leering at him from the shadows, daring him to flinch at invisible fingers curling towards him. Even his own brain was working against him, conjuring up visions of the walls swelling towards him, ghostly arms wreathing around his throat. The bittersweet stink seemed to cloud the tiny room even more as he pushed the haunting thoughts to the back of his mind. He needed to keep his cool here.

And it was here of all places that he had been summoned. The belly of the beast. The lion's den. Harry just wished _here_ didn't have to be a tiny metal box that reeked like dead body. 

Suppressing a cough, Harry took a tentative step forward, wincing as the steel grate floor creaked beneath his weight. "Sir?"

The man, still focused on the screens, did not reply. One meaty fist clutched an unlit cigar, rolling it between his fingers absentmindedly.

Harry found his eyes straying to the wide set shoulders and stiff neck.

A beat passed.

Sweat began to bead on Harry's his temple. "Um, sir? I hope I'm not bothering you sir, it's just I-" 

But Harry stopped short. The hand holding the cigar, had motioned that he move forward.

Harry could feel his toes curl inward. A stiffness settling into his legs. His whole body was taught as he trailed up to the man. He stared ahead at the monitors as he lined up beside him, not daring to peer upwards. The strobing glimmer of the screens was already giving him a headache.

And then, for the first time since Harry had stepped within his presence, the man spoke. His voice as deep and fruity, rumbling. Like distant thunder. "What do you see?"

Harry felt his heart lurch. "I-I see...I see umm-well I see-"

"Coordinated chaos," the man cut in. There was a strange lilt to his voice, bordering between venomous glee and pride. "This, right here is a portfolio if you will. My life's work...I'll have this city under my hand before long. Think about that," the man breathed, the final 't' pinching on his tongue.

Harry spared a glance towards the other man, meeting the gaze that he could feel burning into his flesh. Small piggy eyes. Low set brow and square jaw. Bullish features spoke of a dangerous power carefully restrained beneath the folds of a pristine champagne suit.

Fear curled through Harry's chest. "It'll be a fantastic...show of strength, sir. HYDRA won't be able to touch you."

The man grinned, flashing a row of piano key teeth. "I like your attitude. Now, you have something you'd like to tell me?"

Honey dripped from the man's words, and Harry wondered where the bees and their stingers were. Squaring his shoulders, he swallowed down his fear. Tasted bile. "Yes, yes, yes of course. Um, our contact has a new report to make, and I think you'll like it."

Harry fumbled in his jacket pocket, retrieving a scratched up smartphone. After a few quick scrolls through his messages, he found what he was looking for. "I thought you would prefer to see for yourself," he said quickly, thrusting the battered screen forward. 

The man took the phone into his free hand. Jammed the cigar between his teeth with the other. 

 

_**MM: Think im close.** _

 

**UNDERGROUND: What do you have?**

 

_**MM: He has really weird habits. yesterday he left early and came back today with a huge ass plaster on his jaw** _

 

**UNDERGROUND: Anything else? We need solid proof here**

 

_**MM: Im getting there. I gave him a few shoves and he just took it** _

 

**UNDERGROUND: Took it?**

 

_**MM: yeh he was rock solid. . people said he was the** _ **skinniest** _**kid ever but his records show he's excelling in Phys Ed**_

**UNDERGROUND: Stronger than he looks?**

 

_**MM: definitely. here's the golden goose. some paparazzi saw TONY STARK near his block.** _

__

**UNDERGROUND: WHAT t** **hat's big !! do you have his address???**

 

**MM: _Tony Starks?_**

 

**UNDERGROUND: for gods sake are you fucking serious**

 

_**MM: oops. can't remember. I tried get one of his permission slips but shit happens. I'm going to follow him home sometime**_

 

**UNDERGROUND: you have a picture of him?**

 

_**MM: yeh**_

 

                           

 

 

 

 

__

__

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The man hummed thoughtfully, chewing the cigar absentmindedly.

Harry could hear the blood roaring in his ears, and he almost jumped when the man spoke again. 

"Tell me Harry. How's  _your_ boy doing?" 

Harry almost laughed. What kind of question was _that_ at a time like this? "He's alright. Won a few awards lately. Um, he's got a few projects going for him. It's all happening at once really," Harry gabbled, digging his nails into his sleeve.

The man handed him back his phone. "Perhaps you should consider introducing me one day. We could use someone like him, eh? A high achiever?"

Harry wrestled with his own tongue to construct a response. "Um, if I can find a spare moment, I'm sure we can come and say hello. Sometime during the...weekend?"

The man let loose a grinding chuckle. "I knew I made the right choice when I took you on."

Harry didn't speak, the words lost on his tongue.

The man turned his attention back to the screens. They remained that way for some moments until the man popped open a lighter. Sparked up a small flame. "Harry, you should know that you are a valued asset. Your worth is unfathomable. In return for your efforts, I am guaranteeing your son a place at one of the most prestigious universities New York has to offer- all expenses paid." 

Harry was dumbstruck. A fizz of excitement bubbled through his body. "Sir, I-do you really-"

**"But."** The man turned to face him. "What's the point in investing thousands in something that only turns out pennies?" He blew a puff of smoke. 

Harry's blood ran cold. "I'm really really sorry sir, but we are working as fast as we can. I hate to delay you, but if this is gonna work, we need to do this slowly," he said, his voice low and laboured. He clasped his hands together, knuckles bleaching white. The putrid stink of the room wasn't helping the headache, a weak pulse of pain rapping at the back of his skull. 

" _ **I**_ know that," the man drawled. He took a step forward. The metalwork protested against his weight. "But do **_you_**?"

Harry shrank away. "I-I'll...pick up the pace. Before long you'll have him. I swear it."

The man tilted his head downward ever so slightly, blinking slowly. And then in a sudden flash of movement he charged, pinning Harry up against the concrete wall by the throat. The man smeared him upwards, bracing him four feet above the floor.

The air left Harry's lungs. His feet peddled the air as he feverishly attempted to claw at something, anything that would support him. Once again, he was staring into those dark piggy eyes, dark pools of rage that sucked him into a black despair. _Am I going to die?_ He could feel the pressure increasing around his throat, the fluid pulse of his jugular swelling against a champagne cuff. Hot breath washed over his face. Through gritted teeth came the offending stench of long eaten takeout. The man leered up at him, outlined by the light of the televisions. "You swear it, do you? You'll pick up the pace will you? Swear to _**me.**_ "

Black spots were dancing across Harry's vision. Everything began to turn a sickly shade of red. Gasping for air like a fish out of water, he could barely croak out a response.  "I swear! I swear it- ** _to you_** sir, I swear! 

The arm suddenly pulled back. Harry dropped bodily onto his tailbone. Slumped to his side. His head felt like it was going to implode on itself, pain thumbing behind his eyes. He needed out. Out of this room, into the light of the city. He raised a tentative hand to his collarbone, tracing fingers up and across his skin. A vicious bruise was already knurling towards the surface. The man was speaking again. A watery echo.

He dared to crane his neck towards the voice, fire tearing through his muscles. He was panting, tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. Desperate, he ground out the only thing he could think of

"You'll-you'll have him. You'll have him."


	2. Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A raging storm tears through the city. Peter's day isnt off to a great start, and it only gets worse.

It was a gloomy November day. Dark clouds hung above the city. A merciless storm came bearing down in cruel spears, chilling the streets with an icy smog. 

It was just after eight o'clock, and the school halls were alive with students rushing for class. Peter weaved among them, ducking to avoid jostling arms and elbows. His feet were soaked through after having to sprint across the playing field, his thin shoes providing little protection against the puddles. They squelched as he hurried along, shaking off tiny water droplets in his wake. 

Reaching his locker, he twisted in the combination. Shrugged off his rain jacket and retrieved the books he needed for morning period. Another day of boring textbook lessons lay ahead of him, and Peter was already feeling the ache of boredom straining at his neck.  

Out of nowhere Ned come ploughing into him, breathless with excitement. "Dude," he panted. "Look...look."

Peter suddenly had a phone being shoved under his nose. He reeled at how bright the screen was before his eyes adjusted. It was an online news report, boasting an accusing title with an equally accusing photograph.

 

**ALLEGED SPIDER-MAN IS CATCHPENNY MENACE, written by J. Jonah Jameson**

 

Peter sighed and rolled his eyes. 

This wasn't the first time he had been slandered. As with any public disturbance, there would be photos and videos taken by gawking bystanders and one lucky snap had caught Spider-Man crouched in front of an upturned car. Peter knew how it looked, and no doubt the rest of the article was just as scathing as its headline.

The people of Queens already had mixed feelings towards Spider-Man. If images like this began cropping up, his true intentions would be called into question, especially if they were accompanied by a bigoted reporter like J. Jonah Jameson.

Peter had read his columns before, and they all had a pattern.

J. Jonah Jameson not only seemed pour his own opinions into the writing, but swayed the topic entirely into an embittered rant. It wasn't a mystery as to why the whole city had dubbed him 'The Prickliest Editor in New York'. And yet people loved it- loved to hate it, that is. His negativity attracted readers likes moths to a flame, especially if it was riddled with controversy. Once another of his articles had been printed, people would devour it alive in heated debates across radio stations, podcasts and the occasional talkshow. Peter had come home from school to find Aunt May watching such a debate, her eyes practically glued to the TV. He was the Katie Hopkins of New York.

Peter didn't bother reading the article. Nudged the phone away with a shake of his head. 

Ned looked at him earnestly, his excitement ebbing. "What're you gonna do?"

Peter shrugged, folding his arms. "I guess I just gotta be careful."

"Dude, this is like the third time there's been a paper target you."

"Correction," Peter said, turning away to close his locker. "This is the third time J. Jonah Jameson has targeted me."

A gaggle of cheerleaders came bustling towards them, driving between the two friends. After they had gone Ned ducked close. "What if people, like, start protesting against you or something?" He began to rapidly punch at the keys on his phone, bringing up article after article with similar headings. This time, Peter spared them a glance, nettled by just how many were cropping up.

**Nuisance on the Streets.**

**Vigilante Pandemic**

**Pest**

**Say NO to the Spider.**

**Untrustworthy. Who is REALLY behind the mask?**

Peter groaned and leaned back against his locker. Scrubbed at his face. "Ned I don't think-"

"Or start making man-sized pigeons stoppers and put them on the walls?"

"What? You're overreacting. This'll blow over. Those reports are screwy anyway. Have you actually read anything he publishes?"

Ned look sheepish. Stuffed his phone back into its pocket. "Some of it."

"Dude, you traitor!"

Ned slung an arm around Peter's shoulders, donning the It's like paparazzi, dude! Journalists from a smalltime publisher taking random pictures out of context just so they can make a few bucks. 90% of what he actually says isn't true."

"Oh, so what's the other 10%?" Peter challenged

 

 

Realising he wouldn't get a response, Ned gave him a friendly nudge. "I'm just worried, man. I'm your guy in the chair." His dark eyes were bright with warmth.

Peter smiled, returning the nudge. "I'll be fine. Trust me."

Ned nodded. "Alright. We have chemistry first I think?"

 

The first bell rattled down the corridor, triggering a wave of panic through the throngs of students still trudging to class. Peter and Ned hurried along, slightly breathless before reaching the Chemistry Wing. Ned pushed into the classroom first, dumping down his bag. Mr Cobwell was scrawling at the chalkboard, sparing the odd glance as another clutch of teenagers filed through the door.

Peter was just sliding into his seat when he noticed a colourful pamphlet on his desk. Mint green letters were framed across the top.

 

_School Safety and Firearm Violence_

_What you Need to Know_

 

_Woah..._

Mr Cobwell dusted his hands off before addressing the class. "Alright everyone. Before we start there is something we need to discuss," he said, knitting his fingers together. By now the class was full, and all eyes were focused on him.

"You will have noticed that there is a flyer on your desks. I want you to take the time to read them through." His voice was hard and direct. Peter's hair stood on end. It was unusual for Mr Cobwell to be so firm. He was very placid even when reprimanding his students. But now, his leisurely demeanour had vanished. 

"Now," he continued, adjusting his glasses. "You will have all seen the news or heard it through social media, that there has been an increase of violence involving automatic weapons across the city. It is in this school's best interests that you are advised on how to protect yourself around them."

It was like he had read straight from a script, like in one of Captain America's PSA's. Peter immediately picked up that he steered away from the word 'gun'. Had the teachers rehearsed this? He shivered. 

Mr Cobwell was already beginning to address the chalkboard, but Peter's mind was whirling, dredging up memories he had long since buried.

 _Oh yeah. Today is off to a_ great _start._

* * *

The storm had worsened by noon. The cafeteria was swarming with students. It was the peak of lunch break, and from their usual spot, Peter and Ned watched as rain lashed the windows.

Peter's sneakers had dried off but his socks were still damp, leaving his toes raw.

MJ sidled up to them, a book and sketchpad tucked under her arm. “Hey losers,” she drawled. She tossed a stray lock of hair from her face and settled into a seat adjacent to theirs.

"Hi," Ned replied through a mouthful of mash. Peter raised his hand and gave her a small wave.

A resonating boom of thunder crackled overhead. The occupants of the room looked up in unison, some gaping in awe of the sound. Eager shouts and laughs resonated with the hope of a power outage.

MJ opened her sketchpad. "What do you guys make of it?" 

"The rain? I think it's meant to last all day," Ned mumbled over his fork. 

MJ rolled her eyes. "The flyers. From this morning."

Ned pursed his lips. "It was...weird. It was like-they were trying to sell us something, you know like those guys who hand out magazines at the mall." 

Peter said nothing. He picked at his food and let his eyes wander, trying to tune out the conversation. But MJ had other ideas.

"Parker, it's rude to ignore someone who's talking to you," she chided, more than annoyed at his indifference.

He didn't look at her, continuing to pluck at his lunch. The gun safety leaflet had left a sour taste in his mouth, and a dull yearning in the pit of his stomach. He wanted nothing more than to tear up his own copy and shove it down the nearest trash can, but he dared not. They still needed them for the assembly. "I just...I think it was good idea. They're trying to protect us. Can't...can't fault that."

"Hm," she snorted. "And here I thought this school wanted us dead."

Peter shuffled in his seat. She was talking about the Washington Tower incident. It was still fresh in everybody's mind. Ned had never let him forget it, especially when 'Spidey-Spirit' had begun to embrace the school.

It wasn't unusual to see somebody with a crudely fashioned emblem plastered to their t-shirt, or find chalky webs carved into the walls. Peter wasn't quite sure what to make of it all. At first he had loved the sensation of being the mysterious hero, and how it had captured everybody's imagination. But now, after everything that had happened with the Avengers and Vulture, he had an obligation to live up to his name as 'Queens Own Colourful Local Crimestopper.' At least he had supporters here in the school. If J.Jonah Jameson was going to grill him in his tabloids, so be it.

 _What_   _does he know anyway?_

MJ's voice jolted him from his reverie.

"Any of you got a pencil?" She was glaring daggers at a broken nib. The tip was nowhere to be seen. 

"Sure," Peter replied. As he rummaged in his bag, he eyed the red of his suit. Panic rose in his chest as he shoved some books over top. Just then, turquoise sneakers stepped into his peripheral. He could feel eyes boring into his neck. Scrambling to close the zip, he glanced upward to be met with a pair of grey eyes fringed with a mop of blonde hair.

The boy smiled and spoke. "Excuse me, but I'm right in saying you're Peter Parker?"

His voice was smooth and confident. It reminded Peter of Tony Stark; self assured, brazen, cocky.

"Yeah, that-that's me, yeah. What's up?"

The newcomer straightened a little. "Name's Aaron Nicholson. I saw your picture with the Decathlon Team in the hall. It's my first day here so... I thought I'd try and meet new people and get a little idea about the crowd. I saw you and thought I'd come say hello."

Peter sat up properly, kicking his bag under the table. "Wow, well thats, thats um, that pretty cool. You'll like it here. Uh, this is MJ and Ned," he said, gesturing to the others. 

Aaron smiled at them both in turn before his eyes fell back on Peter. "Are you guys...good friends then?"

Ned nodded, slurping form his juice box. "I've known them both since Middle School."

MJ quirked her mouth. "Where are you from Aaron?"

The boy didn't look the least bit surprised at the straightforward question. He promptly took an empty seat next to her. "As far as I know I was born in Minneapolis. My parents moved us around constantly so I've been all over. When they found Midtown they enrolled me and here I am.  _Hopefully_ I'll be here to stay."

Peter raised his eyebrows. "Wow, so you've been allover then."

"Hm," Aaron huffed. "Well, you can imagine having to hotfoot from place to place hasn't been all fun and games."

MJ narrowed her eyes. "Hotfoot?"

Aaron waved his hand dismissively. "Eh, maybe that was a poor choice of words. My folks are nomads. They get really twitchy when they've had enough of one place. But I've tried to convince them to let me stay here to make some _actual friends,_ not just pen pals."

Ned leaned forward in his chair. "Dude that's actually really cool, getting to travel everywhere!"

Aaron propped his chin in one hand. "Try _living_ it for fourteen years of your life. People think a nomads life is one big vacation but its a nightmare."

MJ flicked at a page of her sketchbook. "Care to elaborate further?"

Aaron shrugged. "Sure. Ask away."

For the next half hour, Ned and MJ fired question after question, all of which Aaron answered with a cool, unruffled air. It was as though he didn't care about people prying into his home life, his parents lives. Peter would never be so open to complete strangers, but Aaron wasn't Peter. 

 

Listening from his end of the lunch table, Peter began to construct a small timeline of Aaron's life. He had been raised on the road, with two dogs called Jack and Daniel. They had passed through into South Dakota when his little brother Max was born. After he turned three, they travelled down through Nebraska, Denver. and joined two caravans of other nomads headed the same way. He met his pen pal Niko in Oklahoma. Around Aaron's tenth birthday, they moved to Mississippi to Tennessee to Richmond. Jack and Daniel were too old to travel, so they gave them away to his Aunt Minnie that stays down in North Carolina, before finally making their way up towards New York. By now, Max is turning twelve in two months time, and they're planning on getting him a puppy. 

"Heh, lucky. Wish I could get a puppy," Ned muttered, his eyes glazing over wistfully. 

MJ laughed, but not unkindly. "Dude, you'd give it a name out of Star Wars. Chewie or something."

Ned stared like at her with shining eyes. "I would totally name a dog Chewie."

Aaron chuckled, beaming. His eyes landed on each of the others in turn, settling on Peter. Expectant.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

He watched as Aaron briefly waved them off before loping up the stairwell.

Without warning, his neck suddenly began to tingle, sending a frizzy shiver down his spine. Something was wrong. His gut twisted into a burning knot, and blood roared in his ears. He whipped around, turning this way and that. Why was his instinct flaring up now? Here of all places, in a jam-packed lobby where he could only pick up the overwhelming presence of his schoolmates? Ned and MJ had been swallowed up in the frenzy.

_Find them._

He shoved through the crowd, flinging apologies over his shoulder. Veering to avoid knocking over a small boy, he didn't see the puddle spilling from underneath a water fountain. Before he knew what was happening, the world tilted. Flailing and grasping at something, anything, Peter lurched backwards. His bag took the impact for him, but dead weight slammed down on top of his stomach. 

"Hey! What the hell!"

Winded and dazed, Peter squinted. _Oh shit._

The girl scrambled from the floor, her face flushed red with embarrassment and fury. He had pulled her down on top of him in his desperation. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

Peter heaved himself up, stumbling a little as he regained his balance. "I am so so so sorry, it was an accident, I was going to fast- and I-and I slipped-are you _hurt_?" He took a tentative step towards her, reaching out with concerned fingers.

He could feel the stares eating into his core. Somebody was snickering. A hot white shame furled in his chest.

"Leave me alone," she barked, darting away from his hand. Peter froze as she fled. He had seen the glimmering wetness in her eyes. He felt sick.

A firm hand grasped his shoulder, yanking him backwards. _MJ_. She pulled him away from the gathering audience, laughter beginning to bounce off the walls. 

They took a corner into the Physics Wing. Ned was standing by a classroom door. When he saw them, he frowned. "Guys whats wrong?"

MJ shoved Peter forward. "Peter decided to do a gravity check. Come on. We're late enough as it is."

Ned let her brush past him before turning to Peter. He looked ready to scream. "Dude, are you alright?"

Peter blew air through his nose. He could feel his temper beginning to wain. He was thankful MJ had pulled him away from being a deer in the headlights, but the damage was done. No doubt his mishap would be spreading like wildfire around the building. He stood for a few moments longer, catching his breath. "I'll be fine."

Ned looked incredulous, but said nothing. He pushed into the classroom and found his desk just across the room from Peter's. Mrs Warren looked at them both with disdain. "Late again you two?"

"Sorry miss it won't happen again," Peter ground out, wincing at how flippant he sounded. She shot him a withering look before resuming the lesson. "Okay-let's turn to page 43 in our Formula 2 books. The A.P. worksheet is our focus for today."

As the lesson progressed, Peter slowly began to zone out. He focused on the rain hammering against the window. The poor leafless sapling outside looked about ready to fly away. The wind was screaming around the school, whipping against the brickwork. 

Peter sighed and leant back in his seat, taking a quick peek at Mrs Warren. She was busying about on her computer, paying little attention to her students. At least he could be bored in peace.

A pencil rattled against the floor.

A chair creaked.

A water bottle puckered.

A rubber creased paper.

A row of fingernails drummed against wood. 

Peter jumped as an elbow knocked into his arm. Said elbow belonged to a rather annoyed classmate. "Can you not?" he hissed. "Everyone can hear you."

He cringed and shot him a rueful glance. "Sorry," Peter hissed back. He swivelled in his chair, taking in everybody's faces. Sure enough, they were all regarding him with dirty looks. Peter ducked his head, his cheeks flushing red. _Can't today just be over with?_ Taking a deep breath, he crouched over his desk, thumbing the edge of his paper. He may as well get on with it.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. "You still owe me a pencil."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there!
> 
> So if you've made it this far, buckle in it's gonna be one hell of a ride! I'd like to thank each and every one of you for checking this fic out. The comments and kudos I have received really warm me from the inside and mean more to me than you could know! 
> 
> So a lot happened in this chapter. I think I need to work on my pacing as a general writing standpoint. I know its a little bit boring to read, but trust me, ALL of it is important. Bear with me I beg you ;w;
> 
> Onward!


	3. On the News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a terrible school day behind him, Peter heads straight into a patrol.

Mist wreathed between stone and iron. Pigeons were taking shelter on window ledges, their feathers fluffed out. Straggly. Peter wrapped his jacket tighter across his chest. The rain had stopped, but the grey clouds reflected his mood like the puddles glimmering on the sidewalk. His feet were going numb again, every footfall sending a shock of pain through his heel. _Why can't it snow instead? I'm so done with this weather._

Thunderstorms in the winter months were rare. Surface temperatures tended to drop as the year drew to a close, but New York had been dealt a heavy hand. Warm air currents were blowing in from the Atlantic ocean and colliding with the cooler climate. As a result, heavy storms were breaking out across the coast and continued to drive further inland. This mornings downpour had been one of many that had battered Queens. Peter didn't doubt another one would be on its way. 

And November was still November, with or without wayfaring thermals. Raw, unforgiving. The spearhead for the Christmas creep.

As Peter trudged along, his eyes were drawn by a glimmering visage of decorations. Fairy lights winking from a store front. Santa Claus waving down from a poster. LED sculptures, candles and angles. Glittery trees of all colours and sizes, crowded by baubles. Strangled by tinsel. The myriad of green, red and gold gave a splash of colour to the otherwise dull facet of the borough. Yet their beauty carried a sadness, one Peter had hoped would never resurface. Until today. 

He ripped his gaze away. Stared ahead. _Just a little longer._

The evening commute had begun, cabs choking the carriageway to a standstill. The atmosphere was buzzing with impatient energy and car horns. Peter skirted the yellow bonnets, keeping his head down. He dared to snatch a glance at an exasperated driver. Mistake. 

The man behind the wheel was glaring at him from beneath beaded glass, his brow knitting together in a warped frown. 

Peter coiled away from his gaze. He slipped behind a woman huddled beneath an umbrella. Wriggled between a lamppost and a fire hydrant. Scaffolding blocking off half the street, raggedy canvas sheets funnelling the crowds into a narrow passageway. Peter ducked inside. The weathered logo rippling against a small breeze carried a musty stench. Earthy. He shivered as he stepped back out into the light, glanced upwards. A rush of excitement trembled through his legs and into his chest. 

The open sky was waiting for him. _Just a little longer_.

The deli leaned into view, its red canopy bloating in the wind. A familiar ache pulled at Peter's stomach. The scent of food pulled him closer, cutting through the gritty stink of exhaust fumes and damp asphalt. Toasting bread, fresh bacon, grilled peppers, mustard and ketchup, cheese, sugar, spices. 

He jogged straight past the door. Continued up the street.

The urge to climb was unbearable. He could feel frustration boil in his lungs. He wanted up. He _needed_ up, high high up. Away from the noise, the people, the smell, away from the _ground._ Peter half-jogged, half- skipped along the path. Ever since his old backpack had been stolen, he'd taken to switching between hidey holes. Never in the same place twice just to be on the safe side, sometimes wandering deep into the unfamiliar pockets of the city. But not today.

His patience was wearing thing, and Peter found himself returning to an old haunt. 

Row upon row of grocery boxes. Glittering reindeer ornaments. Smokers bracing against doorways. A dog walker adjusting a leash. A tangled mass of poinsettias. Baskets of novelty trinkets for tourists. A banner displaying the dates for a Christmas festival. 

An opening. Framed with red gates. Chock full of industrial trash bins.

_YES!_

He slipped into the alcove. Peter snapped his head back to scan the brickwork above. It was caked in pigeon droppings. No windows, a ventilation pipe. The far wall was scrawled over with graffiti. Cameras? None. The flagstones were stained with grime and garbage. Stinking. A forgotten hollow. Peter sidestepped behind one of the bins, yanking out his web-shooters. He dared not put his backpack down. Aunt May hadn't forked out $40 just for him to stain it with bird crap. He glued it against a busted TV, noting he could scavenge it for some parts later on. 

In the middle of changing, a breeze whipped towards him. Loose scraps of trash twirled into the air, discarded pizza boxes and cigarette buds creating the worlds grimiest tornado. Peter gasped as his bare chest, legs and arms were assaulted by an icy blast. His flesh shivered against the cold. Goosebumps. Bristling, he tugged on the suit before fumbling with the mask. _Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit!_

Karen flared to life just as he smacked the insignia on his chest. The AI gave him a polite welcome as the suit drew around his body with a squeal. 

"Welcome back Peter." 

His HUD was glittering into view. Blinking, Peter allowed his eyes to focus.

"Hi Karen, can you get that heater going please?" he ground out, hugging his chest.

"Right away."  

Steam ruffled through the fabric, driving out the chill in his bones. Peter felt an invisible weight lift from his shoulders. Arching his back into a luxurious stretch, he let loose a sigh. Something about being in the suit was comforting and refreshing. Gone was the tiresome drag of school, the monotonous rhythm of everyday life. In its place was a wild instinct that stretched back millions of years ago, now fizzling through his heart. He rolled his shoulders, stretching out his arms like a sprinter before a marathon. 

Karen spoke again. "How are you today Peter?"

Peter grinned to himself. "I'm good. Glad to be out of school."

With a sudden burst of energy he squirreled up the brickwork, reaching the rooftop in seconds.  Glancing over his shoulder, he kicked off from the stone, webbing a line towards a chimney stack. He landed neatly in a crouch before taking off again, bowing into a somersault as he touched down on a generator box. A flock of seagulls mounted into the sky. Over their shrieks, Karen hummed thoughtfully.

"Why? Is school boring?"

Peter chuckled. The AI was comically innocent sometimes. 

"Hnn, yeah. I'd rather be up here," Peter replied. He continued forward, bounding like a hare across the rooftops."Its way more fun."

A chasm yawned into the street below. Without thinking twice he bounced forwards and cleared the gap with a few feet to spare, dropping into a roll with practised ease. He let out a childish giggle. _Way more fun._ Relishing in his power and speed, Peter gave a howl of joy. He couldn't get enough of this feeling, he craved it, pined after it. It was a drug. Euphoric. His heart thumped against his ribs, pushing him on, on on! Twirling, twisting, arcing into the air with joyous abandon. Webbing a line from both hands at once, he catapulted himself skyward. The wind screamed in his ears. He scrunched his body inward, anchored another web into a fire escape. Perching on its edge like a cat, Peter took a moment to catch his breath. 

As his heart slowed, Peter looked out over the city. 

A construction sight rattled and clanged, workers moving back and forth in their orange overalls. A helicopter droned overhead, banking as it rotored through the clouds. On the horizon, skyscrapers were draped in shadow. Monolithic. Apartment blocks stretching for miles in every direction. Trees lining an intersection, their branches mottled with orange and brown. He spied the railroad snaking into the distance, recognising the slanted roof of the Forest Hills train station. A string of patrol cars doing their daily rounds. Grand Central Parkway cutting through the redbrick neighbourhoods, edged by olive swathes of grass. A throng of starlings sheeting towards a power line. Peter was just about to launch himself towards a terraced railing when a shriek of fear caught him off guard. 

Peering down, he saw a small boy sprinting out of a public garage. Behind him came a pack of men, screaming bloody murder. They were gaining on him. Fast. 

Not wasting another breath, Peter dove downward, steering himself between the pursuers and their target. "Yo!" he called, landing squarely on the asphalt. "Mind telling me what's going on here?" The group slowed to a halt. Some looked scared. Others were snarling. All of them were armed. One took a step forward, his thin face almost fox-like. Narrow and sharp."This isn't any of your business Spider-Man. Move it."

Peter stayed where he was. He glanced over his shoulder at their quarry. The boy was trembling, his eyes wide with fear. Peter frowned. "Hm. Hey little man, you know these guys? They're kinda rude."

"Get the fuck outta the way, asshole!" The owner of the voice moved to stand next to his companion. He was burly and dark, wearing a silver-link chain around his neck. "Or you're gonna wake up in hell!" He curled his fingers into a fist, displaying a pair of brass knuckles studded with cruel spikes. As he spoke, Peter noticed that there were security cameras strung across the lampposts surrounding the outdoor parking bays. He smirked. 

Peter raised his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright I'll leave. But before I go..."

Flicked a web into Burly's face.

"I need to teach you guys some manners."

Burly grunted in disgust. He tumbled into his fellow cronies like a bowling ball, momentarily blinded.

Fox-face hissed with fury, swinging his crowbar. Peter slipped out of reach. Grabbed its tip and yanked. Fox-face fell on his front. Before he could rise, his hands and feet were webbed to the ground. He struggled and cursed, but it got him nowhere. "Motherfucker!"

The rest of the group were stunned into silence. Peter cocked his head. "Lesson one. No name calling or bad words."

With a shout, they barreled towards him.

A hammer came first. Rusted and worn, its teeth bared. Its holder was lanky and thin with a long, crooked nose. Peter cuffed him up the side of the jaw before driving an elbow into his gut. He folded, bent-double, gasping. Yelped as his legs gave out, a web glueing them together. In desperation he clawed at the stuff, reaching for the hammer laying inches from his face. "Get this shit off me!" A heartbeat later his hands were bound. Trussed like a turkey. Peter rolled him away with a kick to the flank. "Lesson two. Always say please and thank you."

A cudgel narrowly missed clubbing his chest. This one was portly and heavily freckled, a shock of ginger hair tufted into a mohawk. Peter snatched the hand holding the weapon. Drove the heel of his palm into the man's nose.

The aggressor wailed, dropping the stick with a clatter. He cupped his face, curling into himself. Peter hooked an arm over his neck and flung him onto his stomach. He didn't even bother struggling when he was trapped against the asphalt.

Peter whirled to face the rest of the group, but he was seized from behind. Calloused hands grabbed at his throat. He gagged, scrabbling to break free. Caught a glimpse of a silver-link chain. Burly! Two figures leered into view, their weapons held high, ready to strike. Peter was getting lightheaded. Starving for oxygen. Angling his wrist, he fired a ricochet web.

The effect was immediate. 

There was a splat as the web rocketed into Burly's forehead. Peter wrenched free of his grip as he crumbled to the ground with a guttural cry. Knocked out cold.

Peter spun on his heels to find that the remaining two mobsters had been caught in the rebound, stuck fast in place, their weapons abandoned at their feet. 

"Lesson three. Treat others as you wanna be treated."

  

* * *

 

Twilight was beginning to fall. The sky was tinted lavender, the first evening stars gleaning from behind inky clouds. 

Peter's stomach grumbled. In the lee of a billboard, he rested against a support beam. His mind was racing. The peel of sirens had long since faded, but their whirling cries still bounced through his head. 

"That was a whole bunch of crazy," he said, shuffling into a more comfortable position. "Karen, who were those guys?"

The AI began to replay footage of the fight, isolating each of their faces with intense precision while simultaneously pulling up records and files. "Of the six you encountered only two have criminal backgrounds. Mercedes 'Blinker' Dowell and Blackie Glaxton."

"Burly and Fox-face?"

Peter's HUD highlighted their profiles. Both of them were posing for mugshots, looking a little too pleased with themselves. He skimmed through their reports.

Assault. Trespassing. Reckless driving. Weapons extortion. Arson. Kidnapping.

Murder. 

These men were dangerous. But what were they doing  _out?_ And what were they doing _here,_ running after a child like they wanted to kill him _?_

He jumped when Karen spoke again. "Both were on bail for aggravated battery against a teenage boy. An anonymous patron provided their money. Their next court appearance would have been on the 12th."

Peter's hands were shaking. "So they've done this before. Are they connected to the kid at all? Any family?"

He hadn't managed to get the boy's name. Before he could even ask, three squad cars came hurtling into the parking lot. Peter fled to a balcony, watching as a female officer steered the shivering child away, wrapping a blanket around him. Her cohorts swarmed the men, trying in vain to cut them free. The security cameras had captured everything, and several bystanders who had been hiding away, had begun to make their way towards the blue lights.

Karen was silent for a few moments before she answered. "Both have lived in Staten Island for 40 years. No living relations."

_Damnit._

"There's absolutely nothing else about them?"

"Nothing."

_Double damnit._

This wasn't adding up. He sat where he was for a few minutes more, trying and failing to reach a verdict. There was more to this than met the eye. A heavy dread settled into Peter's stomach. His neck was tingling again. Not as strong as it had been this morning, but strong enough to put him on edge. Something deep inside his core was screaming to be heard, a primal intuition wired to protect him against unseen danger. 

 

 

 

 

_Keep your eyes open._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there!
> 
> Once again I just have to thank you guys so much for all the love you've been giving this fic. It's truly inspiring and means more to me thank you could know!
> 
> So you might notice a few changes happening within published chapters. For some reason WORD isn't saving my most recent files, and is instead resorting to backups that I believe are my final products for each segment of the story, edited and all. If you see a paragraph or two with different wording or information, don't worry! It's an error on my part, and I'm in desperate need of a new laptop. I would also like to apologise for my brief hiatus! I've been away on my Duke of Edinburgh Gold qualifying hike, so no chance of writing this week. 
> 
> But now, here we are! I'm super excited to get into the next chapter!


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